


following a dream

by Blehbet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, M/M, Unrequited Love, breaks ferdinand, hey look at what i can do!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26123392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blehbet/pseuds/Blehbet
Summary: It’s unlike Ferdinand to make so many hypotheses based alone on doubt.He’s not a scholar after all.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	following a dream

**Author's Note:**

> This is Ferdinand's perspective based on the events of this fic:  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/25537012
> 
> (I RECOMMEND THAT YOU READ IT FIRST BEFORE THIS ONE FOR MORE CONTEXT AND JUST!! IN GENERAL - PLEASE READ IT, IT'S REALLY GOOD!!! IF YOU WANT STH TO STAB YOU AND TWIST THE KNIFE AND MAKE YOU CRY THEN IT'S PERFECT, PLS READ IT - SHOW THE AUTHOR SOME LOVE TOO~~ ALRIGHT THANK YOU)

There are six moments where Ferdinand does not consider himself human.

The first, he was a child, where, when he reflects, he does not appreciate how conscious he was then. How vivid the hues of natural brown, garden green and cobblestone grey fill his eyes, as he recovers from a small trip. Of all the memories to retain and it is one overflowing with guilt and gratitude.

“Ferdinand!”

And two other children, around his age run to his side. The girl crouches, while the boy settles onto his knees, a gentle hand on Ferdinand's wrist, and an equally gentle pat on his back. Ferdinand wipes a forearm across his eyes, a whimper very faintly escaping his throat.

“Are you hurt? Do you need help?” Asks the boy.  
“I am sorry-”  
“No, don’t say sorry-!”  
“It’s okay, Ferdinand! Just stay there, you two!”  
“Of course, Lady Edelgard!”

His brown-haired friend was running off, calling for her servant. The other boy, looking to help in some other limited way occupies himself with analysing the short-lived injury. Ferdinand cannot help but feel overwhelmed by how caring his eyes looked. Something he wasn’t quite used to, when similar occurrences happened closer to his mother or father.

“It doesn’t… look too bad. Hopefully, someone can come around quickly and-”  
“Hubert…”  
“Yes, Ferdinand?”  
“Can you kiss it?”  
“Huh?”  
“My sister used to do that whenever I got hurt. She said it was magic. Getting a kiss on a scrape…”  
“Really?”  
“You said you could do magic, right Hubert?”  
“Yes, but not… healing.”  
“Maybe you can try?”

His friend, having no other choice, and he himself convinced that such a healing miracle was simple enough, plants a quick kiss, just above the culprit injury.

“There! Hopefully, that should do it!”

Hubert stood, his hand patting his friend’s shoulder. Ferdinand follows suit, joining his side.

“Thank you, Hubert…”  
“Do you feel better? Did it work?”

Ferdinand swings his leg, testing around the movement and still lingering sting. A finger slips in his mouth, a ritual childhood habit that resulted in reprimands from his mother usually, but with her absence, he freely partakes in the action. The questions fly over his head, in its naivety. Perhaps he was just nervous now, for some obscure reason.

“… Was I too slow?”

Hubert, almost caught a little off guard, tilts his head to the side, inquisitive.

“Hmm… A little bit? Lady Edelgard and I were running ahead of you…”  
“…”

At that, Ferdinand takes a deep inhale. And through the stinging pain, he steps forward. And by the goddess, he feels powerful. This scrape was nothing for him. He felt invincible, blessed with a kiss, as he leapt past his friend, dashing off. Following that desire to reach the horizon.

“I can prove you wrong!! Just watch me!!”  
“Fer-Ferdinand-! Lady Edelgard said to stay here!”

~~~

The second moment is scattered with beige white, orange warmth and inky black.

“Whose fault was it, hm?”  
“Shut up.”  
“Huh. That’s the first time I have heard you say something like that… How ignoble of you, Ferdinand. Using such uncouth language,” The boy beside him curls through his tongue.

“What right do you have to speak to me in such a manner?”  
“Oh? And I thought you regarded me as your equal, now.”  
“In some dire matters, yes. But tell me, does writing out “I will not burn wood in the dining hall,” for a total of a thousand times, sound - hm - As I have said, dire?”  
“Depends.”  
“Ugh.”  
“My hand hurts.”

Ferdinand stops his writing, tossing his quill defeatedly down, frustrated, shaking his head.

“ _By the goddess’ good, merciful word_ , and what of it? What do you want _me_ to do about it?”

It is then, that he makes the fatal mistake of looking at Hubert. His curious eyes, the right one barely poking through that infuriating black fringe stares back. Faint night-time candlelight, neatly carves away at his cheek, revealing a sharpness that Ferdinand almost takes aback at. Since when did Hubert look like this?

And it’s like Hubert can read his thoughts. Because. What his accursed classmate decides to do, only makes his stomach twist at the feelings that corners away at his brain, much like how his posture was pushing back at the edge of his seat. Hubert leans forward, his gloved hand crossing over Ferdinand’s side of the desk, and the other resting at the back of his chair.

“Why don’t you try kissing it?”  
“I-” His face, he can tell his face is going tomato red. And he hates the feeling, “Excuse me?!”  
“Oh, you heard me loud and clear.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, in utter disbelief. His mind was drifting, and it was gravitating to Hubert, at that smirk, having known that it had won this time, as Ferdinand himself, masterful rant-er, had been silenced in such a shameful fashion.

“Well,” Hubert pulls quickly away, “It seems you are too cowardly to commit to such an action... How predictable…”

And the night continues in its disconnected timeline. Ferdinand was feeling something inside of his heart, and it’s akin to something burning and his head experiences the very same sensation.

Was such a physical effect from _all of that_ , really human?

He closes his eyes that night, confused, and lost. He doesn’t… feel human.

~~~

Moment three, Ferdinand sights set on a vignette of dark blue, and two dots of green glued to him.

In his hand a silky letter, with a red wax seal of the Imperial eagle imprinted on its stain.

“Hubert, is that… really you?”  
“Lady Edelgard summoned you.”  
“How long has it been?”  
“I take my leave.”  
“Hubert, wait! Your hair? Perchance, did you get it cut?” He asks, in a nervous laugh.

The man doesn’t respond. And only continues on his way to the carriage, parked in the unkempt lawn of the newly inhabited Aegir estate.

Ever since the dearly departed household arrest of his father, Ferdinand was left with a scrap of the near equivalent of nothing.

His home, his land and his title were all under the very hand of his rival. And frankly, he considers himself incredibly lucky that she still regarded him as an ally, and one still worthy to occupy the ghost, the shell of his former home.

But that was the scary part. It was a ghost, a shell. Empty, husked, with the lack of company he had grown so accustomed to at the Officer’s Academy. And then to have such a familiar face irrevocably, turned away so quickly.

By the goddess, it eats him. It swallows him whole, the feeling of being alone, of never seeing a human face that wasn’t as hollow and desperate as his.

It’s all Ferdinand wants. To have this friend of his, stay. But that look, that glance, that near scoff.

Ferdinand was _not_ Hubert’s friend. Not anymore.

2 years. Since the war began. It is a long time to get accustomed to emptiness. To unaddressed feelings that…

He closes the door, watching the glow of inner carriage light burn, and sear into the night’s all-consuming horizon line.

The scuffle of scrapes, as he drags himself back to his private study. And he plonks himself down, tossing the letter aside on his desk, next to his scores of other empty documents, stained overflowing inkwells, and finally, a forlorn, heirloom’d ring of emerald and gold. Even those objects - _things_ \- don’t feel like they belong to him.

Head in his hands. And he contemplates.

To Ferdinand, what was a human, now?

~~~

In his fourth moment, it’s less colours and more the feeling. The feeling of someone holding him and reminding him that his body still existed. In colours of peach skin, red blushes, and pinks.

The night began as per usual. And his routine of paperwork, bathing and sitting around results in his blankness. As he stares plainly. At a lampstand of all things. That heirloom ring fiddled, gyrating about, between his pointer finger and thumb.

And he is bored, empty. And spontaneity is something that has been lacklustre through the years at the Aegir estate. He needs to occupy himself. Wallowing in his feelings of confusion amongst a war was not going to get him anywhere.

So, he does not care how late it is, only the feeling of needing to get something out, overwhelms him.

He slips the ring back into its pocket, leaving it to simmer at his conscience.

And he’s there. A dissociative moment later. Carriage wheeling itself away as he stands at the edge of Enbarr. His boots echoing against cobble, his cold cloak barely shielding the wind that drifts through, a phantom of the life that he knows abounds about during the day.

Red lights. And it is the one quarter of the city at its busiest. It is head throbbing how the pleasantries of it all fill his nostrils, and his earhole. Alcohol thick in the air, and smell of sweat from body upon body pervades his senses. Here it was to behold; Enbarr and her wanton obsessions with red.

He orders a room. And male company.

And there’s a sickening pause in time where it’s just him lying about, sprawled, face up, on the rented bed, in the rented room, waiting for a rented person, listening to the pounds, the human noises and such of the rooms either side.

He cannot pin the blame on anyone this time. How ignoble of him to do so in the first place. He laughs blankly at that, leaning his head back, his fringe lightly brushing his eyebrows, only tickling his fancy further.

And it is almost depriving him how much he thinks of Hubert. Of that arranged encounter, a mere deliverance of the letter. How stupid of him to fall in such a way? In such a short amount of time-?

Light peaks through, candlelight at the edge of his vision to the click of an opening door.

He only lifts his chin to look, too indifferent to make any effort to get up.

A bottle is in the man’s hand, with two inquisitive wine glasses set aside on a tray.

His company’s hair is not dark enough. Not to his liking.

“I do not drink.”  
“Oh? … Then, how about just for tonight~?”  
“…”  
“I promise you. I am going to make sure _you_ have a good time.”

Ferdinand sits up. The man smiles.

“The wine’s just for a little bit of fun.”  
“…”

Ferdinand turns to face him. And he takes a slow nod. He takes his chances. He takes all the kisses he can get.

~~~

The fifth moment is green, porcelain white, the breeze and liquid before him warm with reds, oranges, and purpled whites.

He takes a sip, and arises from it, a smile wide on his face.

“Well, isn’t this lovely?” The man before him asks, less of a question, more of an observation.

Ferdinand giggles, placing his cup down with a clink.

“Indeed. It is moments like these that make me appreciate your company, Hubert.” 

At the behest of Edelgard, the two had found time to themselves. Just something small and simple that could strengthen their bond. As her two ‘hands’ after all.

“Funny. I was starting to enjoy the silence,” Hubert’s smile arcs across, gently.  
“Oh, come now.” Ferdinand recognises the tease. But despite it, he finds himself equally entertained.

Oh, his wit. That which makes him beyond endearing; affectionate for him.  
Glances, where Ferdinand slips a strand of hair behind his ear.  
Another, where Hubert straightens out his gloves.

He was always curious, but Hubert doesn’t give him the luxury of knowing.

“Do you… enjoy my company, Hubert?”  
All things considered that night-time vignette was still plastered upon his mind. Seeing his back had broken something – he did not admit – but he needed to know at least one thing.

The mug stops. And Hubert looks at Ferdinand, incredulous? Certainly not so. His eyebrows raise in curiosity. Ferdinand amuses himself at the sight.

“Yes. Yes, I do… Why do you ask?”

Ferdinand pushes his sight away – surprised and resistant. Leaning a chin on a lax arm. Curse that pocket, that seems to almost grow, grotesque in its weight. Curse that ring.

“No particular reason.”

He picks at his lips.  
Hubert continues to drink.  
Ferdinand doesn’t feel like himself.

~~~

The sixth moment is amongst dusty browns once again, but there, there’s a haunting difference. There, the stains, the faint traces of red, paint-like splattered across grass.

Hubert keels over, and it is Linhardt who gets to him first. Catching sight of the fatal wound in his shoulder, Ferdinand also rushes to his side.

“Is he alright-?!”

From there it is all a muddle as they rush him off, pushing Ferdinand and the other onlookers aside. Everyone refocuses, the battle concludes quickly. And occupied with his own matters, Ferdinand cannot afford to dote over the man. But with their eventual return to Garreg Mach, Ferdinand, nervous Ferdinand, lingers close to the cart that houses Hubert’s resting self the entire trip back.

And when they slip him into the infirmary, and typically as he’d expect, Linhardt in tow, Ferdinand cannot find it in himself to walk away.

He follows, curiosity and weightlessness at the edge of his steps.

By the door, he presses an ear up, an eye just peeking in. Picking at breadcrumbs of evidence.

Despite the distance and the faint mutters, Ferdinand can tell.

He reads the air. And Hubert’s eyes, the mannerisms he seemed to adopt. All awfully familiar motions he’s grown too familiar with.

He nods solemnly to himself. Of course, it was Linhardt. With his book smarts and lilting charm. It was him that Hubert’s hard-earned attention had grasped. In turn, it was now Edelgard, the Empire and Linhardt that Hubert was set on. At least that was what he assumed; hypothesised. He turns away.

If Hubert had found someone to love, by all means. Good for him.

He’d managed to brush off and ignore himself in the past year.

To be human is to feel and address such things. Ferdinand merely walks it off.

~~~

He remembers in vivid detail, those moments he ruled himself unworthy, or beyond that of a human title.

So, it comes to surprise him when he finds himself walking to Hubert. Or rather his room at least. He doesn’t bring gifts; he only brings himself and a heavy pocket. It’s all he really has after this war.

As much as he’d like to celebrate, there was just something tugging that said, not yet.

Maybe a confession was the signal. He sincerely hopes so.

But turn the corner, and there the man is, flowers in hand. Flowers for Linhardt.

It’s obvious, with that very same admiration in his eyes from days, and days ago.

He’d softly coo, call it adorable in a different mindset. Not right now, though.

Ferdinand walks idly past. Assuredly a good distance between them, enough that Hubert, focused Hubert, would not feel it.

Very rarely would the greenhouse have its doors closed. Open to all. But Ferdinand needed his privacy. And so, for the first time in a year, its opening shudders closed.

And it’s there that he makes his conclusions, proving his hypotheses.

Hubert loved someone else. He told himself he accepted that. Upon the cliff of the infirmary’s door, he said that he was content with that. But out blossoms an accursedness, that he sincerely abhors. And as the flowers of yesterday and buds of tomorrow wither and decay, Ferdinand stands in wind, in song and with a short-lived praise on his lips, he holds his applause.

He congratulates a reluctant desire to move on. But at the same time, there is a moment where heartbreak tears away, and in comes flood, a torrent, a deluge. He snuffs out with the wipe of his eyes. The smears of wet arching across from his left to right. Evaporating upon desert-like skin.

“Wh-What a tragedy! Wh-What a terrible e-end to- end to- end t-” He laments, with a shaky, teary laugh scratching, rasping itself out, “C-Can one truly believe?! In such a brief moment, I, noble, st-stupid, naïve, spineless, ignorant Ferdinand von Aegir…!”

A sharp breath in. And he chokes, sputters. Masking his face to nobody with shaky hands.

He babbles on, a madman on the drug of a soliloquy, he regrets, he contemplates, and by the goddess. He remembers that he does not want to be human. That he doesn’t deserve to be human, if this one man, cannot love him.

It’s petty, and small. Even he knows that. But despite it all.

It hurts, the heated throb at his throat, the cold wind, sucking the liquid, the life from his pupils.

“…”

Birdsong, and verdant wind whistle. The rustle and tumbling hum of cascading Fodlan winds over the fresh breath and breadth of the greenhouse. Trickling fright of fish in a nearby pool. Air top-full of brook-water and Summer sighs. Light shifts in the pangs of a window frame, and with it, the glitter of dust, framing greenery and lush floral plumage. He lifts his gaze to look at it all, heralding the larger world that merely observes and awaits to be observed back. That which it always has and always will for Ferdinand.

“… How pathetic of me…” He relaxes, his hand shaking, and just as quickly recovers, brushing a hand over his face, inhaling deeply.  
“Ahem-”

…

“That is enough of that.”

And what more? And what less?  
To do that – to commit to the mortifying ordeal - he would be letting go of the weight of his pocket - a heavier pocket - filled with emerald gold, rimmed to fit a consenting finger. And he had to admit it. It was… a comforting phantom. Another hypothesis develops – one where the absence will be more damning than its presence.

A ring in exchange for his kisses. Or his kisses in exchange for a ring.

But why should that be the case? He’s just scared. And it’s unlike him to make so many hypotheses based alone on doubt.

He’s not a scholar after all.

~~~

He departs, erasing his trace, doors reopened, at the very least, wishing, that those six moments can stay forever with him in his disillusionment. Antiques, vignettes, where if he should so ever feel a tinge of love again, he can snap and flicker right out. And resume dissociation.

And for one final time he draws a conclusion.

For what is a human, but to have a goal in life – a dream to attain, to follow.

But he doesn’t need to be human. He doesn’t need to be satisfied. He just needs those memories. That ring.

Because now, he _refuses_ to follow.

**Author's Note:**

> :3
> 
> thanks for reading
> 
> you can find me at @blehbet on twitter and tumblr ~ scream about ferdibert with me, why dontcha ;3 ~


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